


Health and Safety in the Workplace

by quodthey



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodthey/pseuds/quodthey
Summary: In which both Bruce and Hal experience little human things.It began, as it always did, with the faint hint of metal in his mouth. It had been several days since someone had last punched him in the face, and he was generally good enough at eating that he didn’t bite his own mouth, so as past experience poked him and said, “Hi, remember me?” he gritted his teeth, and decided to fall back on the tried and true Hal Jordan method of dealing with illnesses.He ignored it. He was great at this.





	Health and Safety in the Workplace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [audreycritter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/gifts).

> happy birthday, audrey!!
> 
> neither your author nor comics know what a "timeline" is so please do not expect sense from this.

They’d warned him about the food. A lot of local cuisine tended to fall into the “not for human consumption” category, so Hal had taken to carrying plenty of rations and attempting diplomacy. Dying wouldn’t be a good look. 

So, they’d warned him about the food. They hadn’t warned him about the sun. Green Lanterns could do a lot but they couldn’t change the intensity of stars. 

It began, as it always did, with the faint hint of metal in his mouth. It had been several days since someone had last punched him in the face, and he was generally good enough at eating that he didn’t bite his own mouth, so as past experience poked him and said, “Hi, remember me?” he gritted his teeth, and decided to fall back on the tried and true Hal Jordan method of dealing with illnesses. 

He ignored it. He was great at this. He could do this. 

By the time disaster had been averted and the locals were no longer at risk of melting and/or becoming space dust, Hal was so nauseous that he had sworn to himself that he was never going to eat again. 

“Home,” he muttered to himself, setting the ring to guide him back toward Earth. “Home, bed, dark, nice. Yes.” 

To say that space was beautiful would make Hal sound like the idiot so many people thought he was, but even he, after years of staring up at and flying through the stars, had to close his eyes tight against the jagged lightning bolt of pain that went through his eye. 

It was fine. He was fine. Home was only—a certain distance away. He wasn’t actually very certain of how far, and he didn’t really need to be, so he closed his eyes and let the ring carry him back, and thought longingly of the pitch black silent room in the tower that was waiting for him. 

The walls of the watchtower, when he arrived, were lovely and cold against his face, soothing the icepick in his brain. He pressed the side of his head against the wall, preferring the steady glide of sliding against it to the jolts of walking, as some would say, “like a normal person.” 

“Urgh,” he managed, one eye cracked open. The glare of the lights bounced off shiny walls. He was going to kill whoever designed this place. 

It might have been Batman, actually. 

Hal could take him. Later. 

At a point when his stomach wasn’t roiling and he could open his eyes fully. He could feel the way half of his face drooped, and grimaced as well as he could. A terrible thought occurred to him. 

Please. Please don’t let the League have been meeting. He would take a thousand migraines over the indignity of having Batman of all people witness him like this. Helpless. Useless. 

That, of course, was when a door he was sliding against opened, and he stumbled—not into free space, or over his own feet. No. He fell into a solid body. He squinted up. 

“Jordan. What are you doing.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Hal managed to say, before turning to the side, and vomiting. 

Two black boots took a step back. He did not vomit on Batman’s shoes. This was the good news. The bad news was that he had thrown up in front of Batman. 

One bare hand gripped his shoulder firmly, pulling him up and holding him steady. The other hand, also flesh, pressed to his face, the steady movements of a father used to checking for temperatures. That was wrong, Hal thought to himself. Batman didn’t have hands. He had those gloves. Gauntlets. 

Bruce brushed the hair back from Hal’s face, and asked, leaving no room for no answers, “What’s wrong?”

Hal waved him off—or would have, if the motion hadn’t caused his stomach to lurch uneasily again. He groaned. “It’s fine,” he said, closing his eyes. “Just a migraine, leave it.” 

“You just threw up inches away from my feet,” Bruce said flatly. “That’s not fine.” 

He choked back a snarl. “I’ll goddamn pay to have them cleaned,” Hal bit out. His eyes were still closed. 

“You’re no good to anyone like this,” he said. “Are you going home?” 

Hal regretted his frown. “I have a room here, don’t I? Unless you’ve decided to revoke my clubhouse membership.” Bruce said nothing.

“With me,” Bruce said, finally, pulling Hal by the shoulder. Hal would have hated the man for that, if he hadn’t curled a hand around the back of Hal’s neck, steadying his head. 

For a moment he let the pressure carry him forward, before he remembered who was pushing him forward. “Wait a minute,” he said, peering blearily at him. “Wait, wait, wait. Is this the part where you drag me to your cave to kill me for being human and having failings?” 

Bruce stared at him. “No,” he said. 

“Then—” 

“I’m taking you home,” Bruce said slowly. “You need medicine. And rest.” He paused. “In a bed that will allow you to sleep.” 

“No,” said Hal. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly. “Yes.” 

Hal considered his position. 

Having had prior experience with death, he knew he wasn’t actually about to die. That did not mean that he didn’t feel like that, however. And Bruce, irritating and overbearing as he was, would be able to move faster than him. Wouldn’t even need to move faster, really—Batman was closer to being a persistence hunter than Hal liked to think about, and would likely just stalk behind him as he stumbled his way along, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. 

It was also possible that Hal had been watching too many documentaries. 

It was also, unfortunately, possible that Hal just—didn’t have the energy to fight Bruce on this. 

Hazily, he reconsidered how close he was to death. 

He stopped for a moment, heaving a sigh, and regretting it. Hal sagged into Bruce’s clutches. 

“I don’t actually need your help,” he said. 

Bruce made a doubtful noise. 

“Done this before by myself,” Hal reminded him. 

“Of course,” Bruce said. He put the slightest bit more pressure against Hal’s shoulder, nudging him forward. Hal went. 

“I’m almost definitely going to throw up on you this time,” Hal said. 

Bruce sighed. “I have more than one pair of boots.” 

#

Transport, Hal decided as he bent over to empty his stomach again, was what hell looked like. Bruce kept him steady, a hand running lightly over his back. 

“We’ll get you some water,” he said, unbearably gentle. Batman wasn’t supposed to be gentle. Bruce was only gentle with his children. 

Hal groaned. “I’m not dying,” he said. 

“People don’t die of migraines,” Bruce agreed. 

The cave was damp and dim, and kind on Hal’s exhausted eyes. “Water?” he repeated. 

Bruce nodded. “This way,” he said, gesturing Hal toward a corner. It was darker than the rest, and isolated in an already forbidden territory and for a split second Hal recalled the various beliefs he had held about Batman over the years. 

A section of the wall slid away before he could consider it further, and Bruce guided Hal into a small bedroom. Another door in the room led to a small bathroom, with a frankly ridiculously well-stocked cabinet. 

Hal turned on the spot carefully, then leaned against the wall. 

“Why are you standing there,” Bruce said. He jerked his head to the side. “The bed is right there.” 

Hal groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, before dragging them down his face. Moving. He could do moving. He made an unhappy noise into his hands and flopped down onto the bed. 

“Oh,” he said faintly into a pillow. “I have a regret.” 

“Only one?” Bruce asked. Hal turned his head slightly, in time to see a glass of water appear on the table next to the bed. A blister pack of painkillers landed next to it. 

Hal groaned. “Did you make me lie down just to make me sit up?” he asked, pushing himself up carefully. “I was almost starting to think nice things about you, Bruce.” 

“Oh,” Bruce said. “However will I live without that.” 

Bruce didn’t seem inclined to leave, even after Hal finished drinking his Batman-mandated water and burrowed his head down into the soft pillows again. Instead, he folded himself up into a chair and set to work on a sheaf of papers.

“What are you doing?” Hal mumbled. 

“Solving crime.” 

Hal blinked slowly. That made sense, of course. But. “Why—are you doing it next to my bed?” 

Bruce set his pen down. He looked at Hal impassively. “Would you prefer to be alone?” he asked. 

Hal tried to think, but he was fuzzy from pain, and his eyes wouldn’t focus. He thought of being in the Batcave alone, this eerily silent room. How long could someone shout down here, before being heard? 

He would have been alone on the tower. He could turn the lights off, and look out at endless black space. He was out there a lot, by himself. 

“Nah,” he said. “I’m going. Gonna sleep.” 

Bruce turned back to his work. “Sleep well,” he said quietly, and Hal, already half-asleep, imagined he could hear the ghost of a smile in his voice when he said, “I’d rather not fill out any more reports about your wellbeing.”


End file.
